


The Signs of Sleep Deprivation

by FriendlyNeighborhoodFangirls



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: (s), A week at the Avengers Compound, And only because he's a douche, Angst, Background Relationships, Bruce Makes Tacos, Canon Disabled Character, Fluff, Hurt Stephen Strange, I mean the new guys, Idiots in Love, Implied ones, Just go with the timeline really, M/M, Minimally, Misunderstandings, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Oblivious Stephen Strange, Peter is a Little Shit, Peter takes matters into his own hands, See I made something fluffy, Some are more implied than others., Stephen is lonely, To make it interesting, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs Sleep, With only a dash of, You see when I say 'Avengers', it didn't happen, so much of it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-09 14:45:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19478071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FriendlyNeighborhoodFangirls/pseuds/FriendlyNeighborhoodFangirls
Summary: "Tony said to put the potato in the dishwasher, so that's what I did."Sometimes, Avengers just show up to say hi. Sometimes, they all show up at once, and Tony makes an party out of it. Sometimes, he invites the snarky, oblivious, somewhat insecure wizard because, and Peter quotes: "everyone else is coming".Sometimes, something needs to be done.





	The Signs of Sleep Deprivation

**Author's Note:**

> Do I know where this came from? No. Did I have fun with it? Yes. Do I hope you enjoy? Absolutely!
> 
> This is for the "fluff" square on my Ironstrange Bingo card. Cuz yup, I got me an Ironstrange Bingo card.

The thing about Tony Stark and sleep deprivation is that the mild symptoms are a mere enhancement of the traits he exhibits every day. Extended time without enough rest is necessary for many of the outward signs to manifest themselves. And by that point, the everyday chaos has often grown to larger and more disruptive proportions, and it is already too late.

“What are you doing?” Peter asks when Tony pinches the bridge of his nose for the fifth time in as many minutes.

They’re in the car, sprawled across the back as the Friday afternoon heat makes the leather scalding hot. Tony has his legs up on the center console. He’s poking Happy with his big toe every now and then, just to make Peter giggle, and the boy’s already looking forward to the coming week. 

May and Pepper have gotten themselves a nice flight to India for the next seven days, a little bit of ‘girls time’. Peter’s pretty sure that is only the second reason they’re going, the first being that the Compound has slowly been accumulating visiting Avengers, one by one, and dealing with their shenanigans isn’t either of the women’s jobs anymore. 

So here Peter is, in a car with Tony Stark, off to waste a week in chaos. He can’t wait.

Leaning forward onto his hand, he watches Tony rub at his eyes. He frowns. “Are you alright?”

“Headache,” his mentor replies. He’s grimacing a bit and his eyes are slightly squinty; Peter’s frown deepens.

“Do you need water or something?” His is lukewarm in his water bottle—he hasn’t filled it since gym class—but it might be a bit of help despite the unappetizing temperature. “Or are you motion sick?”

Happy snorts from the driver’s seat. “Him? Motionsick?”

Tony is regarding Peter with a single raised eyebrow, and the boy shrugged. “Hey, motionsick Iron Man; it could happen. Everyone can have fluke moments of disorientation in vehicles.”

Tony rolls his eyes, rubbing at his forehead again. Peter reaches over to push the button that would roll down his window, and Tony ruffles his curls when Peter’s head grows a little too close. The wind suddenly rushing in is cold, and it blows Tony’s short hair back in ripples. He scrunches up his face in an exaggerated grimace. Peter laughs. 

“Is this supposed to help with my headache?” 

“It’ll help with motion sickness. Take deep breaths.”

“You’re ridiculous.” But Tony leans a bit into the window, his chest rising and falling in obvious rhythm, and Peter knows the pain must be unusual for Tony to actually take his advice so easily. 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Peter puts a hand on Tony’s knee. 

“Fine.” When Tony smiles, it’s easy and genuine, and Peter decides to believe him for once.

* * *

Later, in the workshop, Tony sits next to Peter when he gets out his homework. That in itself is unusual—Tony usually tries to tempt him to ignore the assignments in favor of tinkering. But what’s more obvious is the huge yawn that splits the man’s face when he settles beside Peter.

“Woah,” Peter says, elbowing the slightly sweaty shoulder beside him. “Don’t swallow your tongue or anything.” 

“It’s attached!” Tony protested. “By a handy piece of skin called the frenulum. This has been anatomy lessons with Tony Stark.” Then he yawns again, rubbing at his beard, and Peter grins.

“Sleepy Stark,” he cooes, and Tony flicks his ear.

“I’m perfectly capable in assisting your high school ass with whatever this is.” He gestures toward Peter’s binder, and Peter takes the hint to change the subject.

But before he can launch into a quick explanation about his bio class’s exploration of the importance of sodium and potassium in cellular signaling, the door clicks open. Bruce peaks around it, his fingers curling over the frame. Peter can hear munching from the hallway beyond, and figures Thor is probably lingering just outside as well.

Tony looks up and beckons to his friend, his throat straining to contain yet another yawn. Because he’s thinking about them, Peter feels the urge to yawn too. 

As punishment for ‘driving my best friend and last shred of my sanity out of the Compound for the week’, Tony has conscripted each of the visiting Avengers to create or buy one the week’s dinners. Peter is really hoping he himself isn’t required to participate in this agreement. He can cook fine, but _enjoying_ it is a different story.

He’s pretty sure they’ll all be eating out most nights, anyway.

Apologetically, Bruce asks, “Do we have a teaspoon?” 

Peter holds in a snort of amusement. 

“In the Copper Kitchen?” Tony names the closest cooking station. Bruce nods, and Tony hums for a moment.

“We should. Drawer next to the dishwasher, behind the butter knives.”

“Thanks.” Bruce disappears, and Peter raises an eyebrow at his mentor.

Tony frowns. “What?”

“You never know where anything in the kitchen is! Not a week ago I walked in on you tearing apart the cabinets trying to find the rice cooker!”

“It was the waffle iron, actually, and that thing is more work than DUM-E.”

In the corner, DUM-E beeps proudly. Peter, lifting his head and craning over backward, waves to the little bot. 

“But anyway, I was looking for a clean spoon a couple of days ago and remember seeing it,” Tony continues. He tickles Peter’s exposed stomach, and the boy yelps, contracting in on himself. 

He slaps Tony’s hand away and scowls at him. “Don’t _do_ that.”

“You were asking for it.”

Peter folds his arms around his middle protectively, and Tony folds his lips into a mocking pout. Peter punches him.

“Hey!”

“Asking for it!” Peter lilts.

Chuckling, Tony raises his hands in surrender. Before he can try to get them back on track—Peter’s having far too much fun to want to go back to homework—the boy asks, “what’s Mr. Banner making?” 

“Tacos. And if he hears you call him ‘Mr. Banner’ again, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Another voice fills the room, pooling in the corners and crevices like autumn rain. “He calls you ‘Mr. Stark’ and everyone in the universe and their fathers ‘sir’. Don’t know why you insist on fighting this battle.”

Peter pivots on his chair, grinning at Stephen Strange where he’s standing against the workshop table. The doctor’s shed his tunic and trousers in favor of a long-sleeved shirt, a pair of gloves, and jeans, though there’s a red scarf wrapped around his neck that can only be the Cloak. Any sign of his magic has already dissipated, but Peter can still feel its tingle on his skin. 

“And what do _you_ want?” Tony snaps, but Peter can see he’s pleased to see the sorcerer in the way his shoulders relax and his glower doesn’t reach his eyes.

“You invited me,” Stephen says, sounding unbothered. “Rather forcefully, if I recall correctly.”

Peter shoots Tony a questioning look, and his mentor gestures a bit helplessly. “I told him to come for the week. Everyone else is.”

Peter raises his eyebrows pointedly.

Tony looks away, cheeks flushing under his facial hair, and mutters, “shut up.” Peter sniggers. 

Strange doesn’t notice—or at least, Peter doesn’t think he does. “All we have at the Sanctum is yogurt and I’m not in the mood.”

Peter makes a face. “Ew. No granola, even?”

“See, Stark? Your son understands my pain.” 

Tony and Peter have long since stopped correcting people in terms of what is collectively referred to as the ‘fathersoning thing’. Neither of them really mind the confusion—if it even is confusion. 

Either way, Peter’s pretty sure Stephen misnames them on purpose. 

“The tacos aren’t done,” Tony sighs.

Stephen perks up quite noticeably, his shaking hands twitching at his sides. “Tacos?”

“Yes, tacos. Hulk’s tacos.” Tony rolls his eyes. 

Grinning, Stephen tucks his hands under his shoulders. He looks relieved—Peter hadn’t realized he was tense until it drains from his shoulders and stance like someone pulled the plug in a sink. The doctor’s every word, every movement is just so _controlled;_ Peter can never tell what Stephen is thinking or feeling.

“Great,” he says. 

Tony rolls his eyes again. It’s his go-to reaction to Stephen in any given scenario. 

Peter sniggers again.

Elbowing the boy, Tony gestures toward the door. “Go get yourself a seat before the crowd steals all the good ones.”

Stephen nods, winking at them and sliding out the door. The scarf around his neck waves as he disappears. Stephen’s still smiling a bit, but it’s softer now, secretive and small. 

Tony doesn’t take his eyes off the sorcerer’s sleek form until the door bangs shut behind him. 

Then Peter coos, “ _Ooooo!”_

Tony flushes, fully red this time. “Shut _up_ kid.”

“Is he bi?”

“The _fuck—_ no, he’s not, he’s pan if you must know, and I’m ordering you to shut your little gossiping mouth _now_ before—”

Peter jumps out of his chair, hands fisting excitedly. “Smart _and_ pretty _and_ queer! You’re in luuuuck!” 

Tony tries frantically to grab Peter, but inhuman agility lets him flash out of the way at the last second. Peter darts away, a laugh bubbling up his throat. 

“I ship it so hard!”

“Can you just make fun of me like a normal person, for once?”

“I am, you’re just old,” Peter says. He pats DUM-E on the arm as he darts by him, circling back toward his abandoned homework. “Invited him over to the Compound, didja? And he _came!”_

Tony presses his face into his hands, catching a yawn and trying (and failing) to keep his humiliation in check. “You have no _idea_ how long I’ve been trying to get that wizard—”

Peter squeals.

“—TO COME TO ANY OF THE TEAM GATHERINGS.” Tony glowers, his face so red Peter thinks he might burst a blood vessel. “He’s enigmatic as the fucking dark side of the moon, scared of being included or welcomed for some mind-bending reason, and you aren’t allowed to do _anything_ to make him even the least bit uncomfortable, okay?”

Peter crosses his heart, grinning wide. 

“Okay.” Tony blows out a breath.

And yawns.

They finish Peter’s homework in fond, embarrassed silence, and make their way up for tacos. 

* * *

Saturday morning comes lazy and late, just the way Peter likes it.

He stumbles into the lounge of the Compound quarters, not yet fully awake, and stands blinking in the doorway for a second.

“Hey Peter,” chirps Rhodey. “Sleep well?”

“Yeah, thanks,” Peter recites with a yawn. He wanders over and slumps onto the couch next to the colonel.

Closing his book and leaning over to set it on the ground, Rhodey says, “Breakfast is apparently a free-for-all. I’d recommend waiting until the blood-rage dies down a bit. That’s what I’m doing.”

Peter nods, glancing toward the kitchen tucked into the corner. It’s got some metal-themed name, different from the one they ate in last night, but Peter can’t remember what it is. Only Tony uses them, but even then it’s only to prove a point. 

Peter can’t remember what the point is, either. 

“What are we doing today?” he asks. 

Rhodey shrugs, using his arms to help extricate his legs from the coffee table they rest on. It’s often that he doesn’t wear his braces in the Compound in the morning. Peter likes to think it’s because he trusts the people within it enough to know he’s safe without them. 

“Pretty sure the rest of the Asgardians are dropping by today,” the colonel says. “So there’s that. Otherwise, I’m not sure. I think Bruce and Tony are gonna tinker a bit.”

Peter fakes a yawn. “Lame. Y’all are lucky I’m here to turn this into _anything_ resembling fun.”

Rhodey rolls his eyes, slapping Peter lightly. “We’re so thankful.”

“You should be!” Peter catches the man’s wrist, gives it a quick squeeze, and releases it. 

Another voice interrupts their growing squabble, a smirk roughening the edges of it.

“You’re in my spot,” Carol says, cocking an eyebrow at Peter.

“Oh!” Peter gets up, almost tripping in his haste. “Sorry, Ms. Danvers.”

The woman waves a dismissive hand, laughing, and continues, “no, no, it’s fine.” She collapses next to Rhodes, who grins, and Peter decides he _definitely_ needs to figure out something for the group to do today.

“Is everybody up?” he asks.

Rhodey wavers his hand, the universal _so-so_ gesture. “Haven’t seen Tony, but otherwise, yeah.”

“Fear not!” Tony’s voice rings through the lounge, and Peter twists to look at him with a grin. It fades when he sees the man, however.

“Tony?” 

“Hm?” Tony makes his way toward the kitchen, peeks in, then grimaces and quickly ducks out of the doorway. 

“Are you alright?”

Rhodey and Carol nod, looking a bit concerned. 

Tony stares at them. “Uh… yes?”

He sounds confused, but the weariness on his face is striking. He looks bedraggled, downright exhausted, with deep shadows beneath his eyes and a yawn already hidden in the tension of his throat. 

“Is it the nightmares again?” Rhodey asks. He looks like he wants to get up.

“Wha—no!” Tony denies quickly. 

“We all get them,” Carol says, a slight frown twisting her expression. Peter nods emphatically. 

“No,” Tony says again. “I mean, yes, we do, but I’m fine. I’ve been much better.”

Peter raises an eyebrow, trotting over to his mentor. “Then why do you look like you haven’t slept in a fortnight? And that—” he pointed to the hallway Tony had come out of— “is _not_ the way to your room.”

Tony chuckled, but Peter just glared at him.

“Fine, yes, it’s not. You’re far too observant for your own good. But really, I’m fine. Tired, but fine.”

Peter narrows his eyes, but decides to let it go. From the silence of the room, it seems that Rhodey and Carol have decided to do so as well. 

As Bruce and Thor wander out of the kitchen, bowls in had, Tony ducks within it and out of their sight. “Thor, dinner’s on you!” he calls.

It isn’t until much, much later that Peter realizes the hallway Tony came out of was the way to the Copper Kitchen. 

* * *

Eight heroes of varying sizes all trying to be polite at once is an interesting experience, Peter decides. 

The crowding of bodies in the kitchen as everyone tries to rinse plates and clean dishes and put away condiments is chaotic and awkward, and Peter stands on the nearest counter and tries to keep from laughing.

Carol and Rhodey are chatting as they casually throw elbows to try and make it to the dishwasher. Thor’s practically dripping pride as he receives at least eighteen compliments for the meal where he stands next to the refrigerator, trying to fit the cheese and sour cream back in. Beside him, Tony’s attempting to bus plates and _not_ doing a very good job. Bruce runs a wash rag erratically over the counters. Loki and Valkyrie are washing the knives—actually, no, they aren’t. 

Peter frowns after a moment. One face is still missing. 

He jumps down from the counter with a quiet thud and shoves his way through the throng of clumsy, tired Avengers toward the door of the Zinc Kitchen. There’s an almost audible _pop_ when he emerges, and Peter blows out a breath.

Stephen is sitting cross-legged before the coffee table of the lounge, plate still mostly full. Peter’d noticed he hadn’t eaten much over the course of the meal, but he’d figured it was just because he didn’t care for Thor’s strange mixing of spices on a mostly lettuce-based dish.

Now, though, Stephen is scooping that lettuce into his cupped hand. Fork abandoned on the table beside him, he carefully arranges the components of the meal on his curved fingers. His shoulders are just a bit hunched as he lifts his hands to his face and uses his teeth to pull the strips of lettuce into his mouth.

Peter suddenly understands why he was so excited about tacos. 

“Mr. Doctor Strange?” Peter says, his voice containing nothing of judgement nor realization. He’s long since learned that letting insecure heroes confront him on their own terms is by far the best strategy. 

“Peter,” Stephen says, quickly dropping his shaking hands. 

Peter gestures to the plate. “Do you want me to take that?”

“No, uh, I’ve got it.” Stephen offers a smile. Peter can’t tell if its the one that makes Tony frown, or the one that turns him into a blushing mess.

“Alright,” Peter says, and flees back into the kitchen. 

* * *

Sunday is long and fun, full of training and racing and card games, trying to make Stephen laugh (and everyone consistently failing), Tony’s yawns, and Peter’s awful DJ skills. The highlight is Rhodey’s beautifully constructed potato bar, which the team devours like a swarm of teenage locusts. 

The downside comes the next day.

_“AAAAH!”_

The scream makes everyone in the lounge sit bolt upright, turning wide eyes to the Zinc Kitchen. In a stream, they flock into the small area. Carol is standing over the open dishwasher, a look of abject horror on her face as her fists glow ever-so-slightly.

The carnage lies within the expensive machine. Something seems to have exploded within it, all over what should be clean dishes, clogging the drain and soaking disgustingly. Peter wrinkles his nose; he can smell it, though its faint enough that he doesn’t think anyone else can. 

“What. Is this?” Carol demands, smoldering with world-altering power over a dishwasher.

“Tony?” Peter asks, not envying the explaining the man’s going to have to do for his little experiment.

But Tony just looks baffled. “Don’t ask me, kid.”

Peter frowns. “What do you mean? Isn’t this…”

Everyone stares at him.

Peter, adverse to suddenly being the center of attention, explains defensively, “the potato? The extra one from last night?”

Nobody shows any understanding.

“Tony said…” Peter glances at his mentor. “Tony said to put the potato in the dishwasher, so that’s what I did.”

Three distinct reactions follow Peter’s declaration. Rhodey, Carol, Thor, Valk, and Stephen burst out laughing. Tony and Bruce look rather confused. And Loki regards the destruction with a calculating eye, purses his lips, and nods as though filing it away for later use. 

“I never said that,” Tony said. “Did I?”

“You were a bit out of it, last night, Tones,” Rhodey admits.

“Well, why did you listen to me then?” That to Peter.

“Honestly,” Stephen drawls. “You should know better than to listen to Tony by this point, Peter.”

“Hey—”

“I thought it was a science thing!” Peter explains hastily. “Like an experiment or something! Tony’s done weirder things ‘for science.’”

They have to concede that point. 

“Well,” Tony says, staring down at the carnage of his expensive dishwasher, “I suppose something good came of this.”

“What?”

“I win yesterday’s draw.”

He grins cheekily at the room’s collective confusion. 

“I got Stephen to laugh.”

* * *

They get four days before something goes wrong. 

They’re mostly good days, despite the fact that they see Tony less and less as they wear on. Peter’s trying not to worry about that; besides the forgetfulness and yawning, he seems fine. Meaning, the usual funk of nightmares aren’t hanging above his mentor’s disposition. 

Whenever he denies that he isn’t sleeping well, Peter doesn’t think he’s lying. There’s none of the usual signs, and Peter just… doesn’t understand what the problem is. He keeps prying, but Tony dodges expertly, almost effortlessly, never once stumbling or revealing anything of use.

So what can Peter do but believe him? His idiot mentor would tell him if something was wrong.

Right?

But Tony is tired, and he’s moody, and he’s clumsy and plodding and keeps dozing during movies. When he’s there for them at all.

Is it work? Something in the lab that Tony’s tinkering with? This is supposed to be their week off, their week to play, and it’s getting irritating that he hardly sees Tony more than _normal_ weeks at this point.

Eight of them are sprawled across one of the porches of the Compound, a deck of cards left abandoned between them. Peter’s perched on the railing, sticking unconsciously to its rim, while Stephen sits against the screen door and the rest are propped up in various chairs around the space. Tony’s missing, but nobody asks anymore. 

“That game is officially my favorite,” declares Valk, raising a hand. 

Peter chuckles. “That’s just because you’re ruthless and cannot be stopped. Not even by Ms. Danvers.”

Carol glowers, but she can’t really object; playing the Great Dalmuti is stimulating and frustrating and even space powers won’t get you out of the peasant position when you’re unlucky. Peter had been stuck as 4th merchant for most of the rounds they played. 

“Who’s cooking tonight?” Bruce wisely changes the subject before the two noble warrior heroes can start brawling again.

Everyone throws fingers around, but most of them land on Loki, who’s lip curls. 

“Don’t be like that,” Peter says. “Look on the bright side! Now’s your chance to poison all of us!” 

Loki looks significantly cheered, while everyone else looks significantly nervous. 

“You just _had_ to put that idea into his head,” Thor rumbles. Peter shrugs, smile glinting. 

The screen door opens with a _shick,_ interrupting their conversation. Only Stephen’s quick movements keep Tony from stepping on him as the engineer emerges wearilly from the Compound. 

“Hey all,” he announces. 

“Where’ve _you_ been?” Peter asks, beckoning the man over. 

“In the kitchen,” Tony replies, and waves away Peter’s next question. “What’d I miss?”

“Valk destroying Carol in Dalmuti.” Rhodey threw a card at Tony, who caught it.

“Valk destroying all of us in Dalmuti,” Stephen added. 

Loki pointed at his fellow sorcerer. “Stephen complaining about wasted time, the usual.”

Tony glanced at the man sitting against the door frame, who met his eyes in that even, easy way he did. Oh, did Peter ship it…

“Oh?” Tony asked.

Stephen shrugged, and Bruce elected to elaborate. “He’s got very little faith in the world’s ability to survive without us.”

Stephen huffed. “The universe, more like.”

“You could always leave,” Tony says.

It’s meant to be sarcastic, Peter knows. But the weariness in Tony’s voice masks that nearly completely, and Stephen frowns. Just slightly, but its there, and it shoots tension through Peter’s form like lightning.

Tony elaborates, though. “If you have duties, I mean. We don’t mean to keep you from them.”

Stephen relaxes in that imperceptible way that Peter’s starting to get used to. “It’s fine.”

“But really,” Tony smiles, and it doesn’t reach his eyes. “If you need to go, that’s alright. There’s no reason for you to stay.”

There’s a beat of silence. 

“Oh,” Stephen mumbles. “Right.”

Tony settles back, and after a moment, the conversation moves on without a hitch. “Want to play again? I bet I can beat Valk.”

“As tired as you are? A likely story.”

“Try me.”

By the time Valkyrie has thoroughly whipped their asses, even Peter has forgotten about the exchange. 

And not even Peter realizes that Stephen has gone inside, and has yet to re-emerge.

* * *

It’s luck that has Peter knocking on the sorcerer’s door that night at just the right time. 

The room is outwardly generic, like all of the suits in this part of the quarters. A few of the teams who stay for long stretches will choose a room and embellish it, but Stephen’s door is still the basic dark wood. 

“Mr. Doctor Strange?” Peter calls, knocking again. “You in there? Thor’s forcing Loki to do impressions and it's really quite hilarious. Valkyrie’s helping him—Loki I mean—and I think they’re recreating an old Asgardian musical?”

There’s no answer for a moment. Peter lifts his hand to knock one more time—May always tells him two is too hasty and four is exasperating—but the handle turns and the door cracks open.

“Hey, Peter,” Stephen says, letting the hinges swing wide. “Sorry, I was changing.”

The sorcerer is back in his robes, the Cloak hovering behind him—a bit closer then usual. Peter frowns, noticing the sling-ring on Stephen’s finger and the protective bandages over his scarred hands. 

“You’re leaving?” he blurts before he can stop himself.

Stephen averts his eyes. It’s small, only a few inches really as Stephen looks at Peter’s temple instead of his eyes, but Peter sees the flicker and understands instantly.

_Shit._

“It’s fine; my fault I suppose,” the sorcerer says, his smile sardonic. “I guess I thought… I misinterpreted.”

“What…?” Part of Peter wants to reach out, but he finds himself stepping back instead.

“Nothing, nevermind. I’ll be out of your hair in just a few more minutes.”

“You think we don’t want you here?” Peter’s brow furrows. _That’s ridiculous._

Stephen shrugs. It’s so easy, controlled, like _everything the goddamn man does,_ and Peter can’t tell, can’t tell what he _means._

“You’ve made it clear. I’m not insulted or anything, don’t worry.”

_What?_

“If it’s about what Mr. Stark—he didn’t—” Peter takes a breath. How the hell does he deal with this, this sorcerer who doesn’t do or say or show _anything_ he truly feels, who grins with lying ease and snarks even more so, who is so different and yet the same as Tony? 

Not his grey area.

“Something’s up with Mr. Stark,” Peter finally manages. “He’s tired. He didn’t mean… he wouldn’t have said—”

“I understand.” Stephen nods. 

But it is so clear he doesn’t, so painfully clear. 

“He just meant…” 

Peter trails off. Because he can’t tell Stephen the truth; that Tony meant exactly what he said. Nothing more, nothing less; the sorcerer isn’t obligated to stay. But not because he isn’t welcome, but because Tony wants him to do what he wants, wants him to be comfortable.

How does one just explain that _hey, my dad has the biggest, cutest crush on you?_

Stephen’s watching him, and when Peter closes his mouth in defeat, he nods. It makes Peter want to scream.

“Tell Stark…” The sorcerer searches for words for a moment, then sighed and wrapped the Cloak around his shoulders. “Nevermind. Tell him he doesn’t have anything to avoid anymore.”

And then Stephen is gone, nothing but the quiet closing of a darkened wooden door.

Peter stares at if for a moment.

“Shit,” he says. 

Turning on his heel, he breaks into a run back toward the lounge. He can hear laughter, and it makes him grimace; idiots, all of them—including him. And especially Stephen Strange. 

Tony looks up excitedly when he slips back into the room, panting slightly. The expression fades to something confused when he sees Peter’s face. It slides to the left of him, toward the empty hallway, and then Tony if frowning and standing and picking over the relaxing Avengers to Peter’s side.

“What is it?” Tony asks quietly, under the chatter of the room.

“You’ve—Mr. Doctor Strange…” _Talk, Peter!_ “He thought… now he’s left and I should have stopped him, I should have explained but I didn’t know what to say and now—”

Tony holds up a hand. “Left?” he asks, looking so stupidly confused that Peter almost laughs. “Stephen?”

“Yeah.”

The realization bursts across Tony’s face like someone flicked a light switch. Then it crumples. “Fuck,” Tony breathed.

Peter nods. 

* * *

Tony tries to call the doctor, but he doesn’t pick up. Peter isn’t surprised. And Tony only looks more exhausted, like now there’s no reason to hold it back. 

It makes Peter furious at both him and Stephen. 

Thursday night—or maybe its Friday morning—he makes his way to the Copper Kitchen. He’s thirsty, and he woke up to a wildcat crying loudly in the woods around the Compound and couldn’t get back asleep.

To his surprise, the light is on. FRIDAY would usually turn it off, and there isn’t any sound coming from within…

A little nervous, Peter flattens himself to the hallway and slinks forward, watching the shadow in the beam of light through the open doorway. It isn’t moving. Peter swallows, finger brushing the button of his web-shooter. One always wears one’s nonlethal weapons when holed up in the Avengers Compound, especially when Loki was in the house.

But as Peter peered around the doorway, no threat met him. No threat aside from a decidedly broody Tony Stark. 

A Tony Stark standing against the island counter, a smear of flower on his face and a dusting of it on his shirt collar. He’s wearing a pair of flowered oven-mitts as he holds a pan of slightly oblong cookies, their scent wafting through the room, and he’s watching them with a somewhat desolate expression. He looks like he’s about to burst into tears.

Nope. Unacceptable. 

“Mr. Stark?” Peter asks, stepping into the light. 

The man looks up, and weariness and embarrassment war for domination on his face. Weariness wins. “Hi kid.”

“What… what are you doing?”

“I finally did it,” Tony says, without triumph. “No longer crumbly, no longer flat and tasteless.” 

“Is this…” Peter moves closer. “Is this what you’ve been working on?”

Tony nods. “Stupid, I know. Me, baking? Fat chance. I’m so fucking terrible at it, but I thought, _‘how hard can it be’_ and the answer is apparently really, really goddamn hard—”

“Why didn’t you just say?” Peter yelps 

Tony sets the tray on the stove and slowly slips his hands from the oven mitts. He rubs his face, flower escaping between his fingers. “I wanted… well, because you all were going to make fun of me, and because I wanted it to be a surprise.”

Peter raises an eyebrow.

Tony sighs. “The idiot sorcerer thinks I don’t know he’s turning forty-eight on Saturday.”

Oh. _Oh._

Tony continues quickly, his words running together at the edges, “you know how he is with food, and I wanted to make sure he could eat them, but then all the ones I made were too crumbly and when I tried to fix it they went flat, and I’ve finally made some that work and taste fucking phenomenal.” He gestures to the pan. “But it’s a bit late.”

Peter just blinks at him, then drops his face into his hands, exasperated. “You are an idiot.”

“I know.”

“A hopeless, lovestruck idiot.”

“I know.” It’s sad, defeated.

And Peter knows, as clear as those cookies are perfect, that he has to fix this. What kind of person would he be to let Tony mope over cookies at two in the morning?

Not a good son, that’s for sure.

* * *

“The wizard?” Carol asks, sounding incredulous. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.” Peter’s fiddling through the contacts on his phone as FRIDAY examines her database for the one they need. 

“He doesn’t tip my gaydar,” Loki muses from behind her. Bruce chokes on his coffee. 

“You have no gaydar whatsoever!” Valkyrie calls, chucking a pencil at the other Asgardian. 

“It’s true,” Thor says with a nod.

“ _Anyway.”_ Peter rolls his eyes. “Mr. Stark’s dramatic enough that he’s still slumping about the kitchen. All we have to do is get Mr. Doctor Strange to slump around there too, but he isn’t returning any normal calls. Which is understandable.”

Rhodey sighs, his fingers tapping on the armrest of his chair. “Two useless, insecure geniuses,” he murmurs. “I should’ve seen this coming.”

“Yeah, you should’ve,” Loki says, tossing and catching a dagger—where the fuck did he get that?

“I’m thinking we fake an emergency,” Peter interrupts, trying to get them back on track. “Get him at least in the same wing of the Compound. Loki, can you use your magic to direct him here?”

“Sure.”

“Okay, great.” Peter gets up, jumping onto the coffee table and starting to pace slightly. “Then we all make ourselves scarce and hope the ‘useless, insecure geniuses’ are just insecure enough to work it out.”  
Valkyrie grins. “If not, more cookies for us.”

“Could we please focus?”

“Mr. Parker,” the ceiling said, and Peter glanced up. _Thank you, FRIDAY._

“Yeah?”

“I am ready to call on the _‘Fucking Aliens, Need Backup’_ line, as soon as you’re ready.”

Peter’s about to give the word when Bruce lifts a hand, and they all pause.

“Isn’t that… y'know, crying wolf?” Bruce asks. “That’s the _emergency emergency_ line. For… emergencies.”

Loki rolls his eyes. 

Peter just stares at Bruce. “This is an emergency.”

* * *

Peter knows he really shouldn’t be doing this.

It’s snooping, and it’s inappropriate and probably embarrassing for himself, but he can’t help it. Besides, this cupboard is the perfect size, and he can see almost the whole Copper Kitchen from the slightly cracked door. 

Tony came in a few minutes ago, looking even more like a kicked puppy. It is Saturday, Peter supposes, and nothing has gone the way his mentor hoped. 

Not yet, at least.

“Ready?” Peter breathes into the open coms of his mask. 

“Ready,” chorus the Avengers. 

“Go, FRIDAY.”

Nothing outward changes, no blinking lights or sirens or anything. But with any luck, they’re going off in a certain sorcerer’s mind, and the team is scattering into rooms and locking doors and conjuring distractions. Peter settles even further back into the cupboard. 

For an excruciatingly long time, he watches Tony bake cookies. It’s a strange dichotomy of emotions. Baking cookies should be fun, exciting, anticipatory, but Tony moves through it on autopilot. 

Broken-hearted.

Tony’s pulling the cookies from the oven, clad in those ridiculous oven mitts, when Stephen Strange rounds the corner.

He stops in his tracks, as though he’s run into an invisible wall.

Tony, now humming sadly, nudges the oven door closed. Peter bites down on his sigh of involuntary contentment as the scrumptious scent wafts affront his nose. Balancing the pan on one hand, Tony uses the other to flick off the heat before turning. 

And freezes.

Peter’s hand shoots up to cover his mouth as the two men stare at each other, unmoving. One confused, the other caught in the act, there’s only a pan of cookies between them. 

“Stephen?” Tony finally says, and Peter wants to cheer. 

“T—Stark, I—” The sorcerer breaks off. Clears his throat. Tucks shaking hands protectively behind himself. 

Peter leans forward in his cupboard.

“You came back,” Tony observes, and there’s a little spark of joy in his voice. 

“I thought...” Stephen points down the hallway, as if that’s supposed to explain anything. “The call said—is everything alright? What do I need to do?”

“Nothing,” Tony is quick to say. “There’s nothing you need to do, I didn’t mean to make it seem—I didn’t—”

“Where’s the fight?”

“There’s no fight,” Tony assures, despite the confusion in his tone.

“Oh.” Stephen edges backward, eyes flickering side to side like a caged animal. “I should… er, must’ve been a mistake. I should go then, sorry—”

“No!” Tony takes a step forward, extending a hand. It’s still wrapped in the floral mitts. 

Stephen stops, a hand on the door. Peter holds his breath.

“Don’t,” Tony says. “I… you…”

Stephen’s scared fingers slip off the door. “It’s fine, I shouldn’t have—”

“Happy birthday.”

The sorcerer freezes, surprise breaking through his perfectly controlled expression.

“What?”

Tony carefully sets down the cookies, his shoulders tense. Peter can’t see his face from his angle through the tiny sliver of the cupboard door, but he knows Tony is looking anywhere but at Stephen.

“I, uh, I wasn’t going to say anything, but I made you, uh…” he gestures to the cookies, and Peter smiles. Tony sounds like him when he’s talking to MJ. 

“You bake?” Stephen asks, cocking his head. The silver streak in his hair drops free of its curl, swaying in front of his face.

Tony laughs. “No, no I don’t. I’m terrible at it, apparently. I’ve been trying to make decent cookies for a week now, when none of you were paying attention.”

“When we were asleep.” There’s a flicker of realization in Stephen’s nebulous eyes.

“I was going to surprise you.”

“But… why?”

Shaking hands clasp themselves in front of Stephen, and he takes a hesitant step forward. Peter scooches closer, trying to find a way to see Tony’s face.

“What do you mean why?” Tony throws one of the oven mitts at the sorcerer, who catches it with the faintest of smiles. 

“Why would you care? Why go to all this trouble… why stay up? Make yourself exhausted?”

“Because you deserve some goddamn cookies, Stephen Strange,” Tony declares, plucking the biggest one from the tray and ceremoniously placing it on his palm. Peter holds his breath.

“You deserve cookies you can eat with all of us despite those hands.” Tony jerks his chin, and Stephen goes to hide his fingers behind his back, as if on instinct.

“Hey.” Voice softer now, Tony moves forward. “That’s not what I meant.”  
“I… I know.” But Stephen’s hands don’t reappear.

At least until Tony presents his own palm and the cookie atop it, stepping near the sorcerer but not close enough to touch. Not yet.

Keeping his eyes on Tony, Stephen swipes the pastry from his hand.

“Thank you.” He smiles. 

Peter really hopes Tony isn’t just staring at the wizard as he eats. He doubts it, though. 

Stephen bites into the cookie like he does everything else; with immense concentration and precision. It almost drives Peter mad, watching the sorcerer savor every crumb of the pastry slowly and completely. He is salivating over here, cooped up with only the smell of chocolate and sugar, and just _watching_ was infuriating.

He wants to scream _get ON with it!_ At both of them. 

He doesn’t, obviously. 

“That was quite good,” Stephen admits, licking the last of the crumbs of his scarred fingers. Then he adds, “for someone of your experience.”

“I’m hurt, wizard,” Tony gasps. “Wounded, I tell you.”

Stephen crosses his arms. “I suppose a week of secret practice will get you _some_ where.”

Tony’s head quirked, and Peter knew he was smirking. “You know, some seed of talent promotes any greatness to rise.”

“That’s sourdough,” Stephen deadpans. “I thought these were chocolate chip.”

Point for the doctor. Peter smirks, thumping slightly as he readjusts yet again. 

“With?” Tony prompts, ignoring the last comment. From Tony, it’s an admission of defeat as clear as anything. 

Stephen’s eyes drift up and left, like he’s trying to remember the precise taste. “Walnuts?”

“Wrong.” Tony crosses his arms, mirroring the wizard. “Stark-raving hazelnuts, of course.” 

Stephen laughs. It’s deep and rolling and Peter can see Tony reveling in it. 

“For the record,” Peter’s mentor says after a moment, his hands fluttering back to his sides, “I didn’t want you to go when I said there was no reason for you to stay.”

“It sounded rather like that.”

“I realize. And I’m sorry.”

Stephen, nodding, moves just the slightest bit closer. “I forgive you.”

“That’s uh, good,” Tony observes.

Peter drops his forehead against his palm with a silent sigh. 

Stephen’s watching the engineer, still smiling that whisper of a smile. “So?” he prompts quietly. 

“So.” Tony swallows. “I actually prefer you stay, since your in the area.”

The sorcerer’s smile grows just a little bit into smirk territory as he says, “why?”

Tony splutters, and Peter covers his mouth to keep in his laugh. Watching him intently, Stephen’s smile widens with each of Tony’s wild, somewhat frustrated gesticulations. 

“I just told you—for _fuck’s_ sake—”

And then Stephen bends his long spine and kisses him. 

Peter can’t strangle his squawk before it’s too late, but the men before him are occupied and do not notice. To be honest, Peter wasn’t expecting either of them to be brave enough to—to actually—and if someone was going to he would have put his money on Tony but here they were, and there was a wizard kissing his dad in the doorway of the Copper Kitchen and it’s suddenly strikingly obvious to Peter that he’s the best son ever. 

Stephen pulls away after a moment, too long and not nearly long enough. 

“Sorry,” he says, because of course he does. “I just… really like cookies.”

“Well shit,” Tony blurts eloquently. 

And this time it’s him, pushing himself onto the balls of his feet, wrapping his fingers around Stephen’s neck, pulling them together in some perfect hybrid of their dramatic height difference. Stephen’s eyes are half closed and Peter can see one shaking hand brush delicately against Tony’s jaw, curious and careful. It looks right. Natural. 

Peter smiles. 

When Tony’s head has traveled down to the crook of Stephen’s neck, Peter thinks he should probably look away now.

But then the sorcerer is huffing a laugh, wrapping one arm around Tony to support him, and Peter notes the way his mentor’s arms have slipped off Stephen’s neck. The man’s practically holding Tony up—no, he is.

Tony’s fallen asleep, right there in the doorway of the kitchen. 

And it’s about time, a thousand different things are _just about_ due at this point, and Peter can’t contain his pure, shining grin. All they needed was the last stage of sleep deprivation.

Stephen bends, tucking his other arm beneath Tony’s knees and scooping him fully into his arms. Peter wants to squeal.

“Douchebag,” the doctor murmurs fondly. 

As he leaves the room, he pauses in the doorway. Peter thinks he might be looking for the light-switch, until Stephen’s deep voice finds its way through the kitchen again.

“Try a cookie, Peter,” he says, looking directly at Peter’s cupboard. “They’re really good.”

* * *

They are. 

And there’s plenty for the other Avengers as they sprawl lazily through the kitchen, laughing and cheering as Peter recites the story. 

They leave two cookies for Stephen and Tony. 

Both go cold on the counter, and no one is surprised. 

**Author's Note:**

> Me writing in present tense: *constant illiterate screaming* WHY THE FRICK DO I DO THIS TO MYSELF THIS SUCKS I HATE MY LIFE
> 
> Me reading present tense: See, what a lovely effect this brings to a one-shot, what a sense of currency, what an engrossing way of using words. 
> 
> Me reading my own present tense: Wtf that's still in past tense. 
> 
> AAAANYWAY! Hope you enjoyed this little diddley! Drop me a kudos or a comment and have a great day!


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